The Second Act

It’s a funny thing to be this age, at this ability, at this crossroads, at this chance. No one can truly articulate the nuances of adult life and interactions. Maybe it’s the access to content and information that makes us change and grasp onto straws stolen from the murky cafes that house lonely memories.

The idea that a person is a collage of everyone they’ve ever met, hardly able to know their real self, let alone confront their real self, is probably more prevalent than any of us want to face. But even as I write that, I feel myself surge in my veins. Like a mad scientist pushing a liquid into the veins of a monster, I see it trickle down and in. I feel visible and unidentifiable, a pulse of aura.

If I liked tea, I’d try to read the leaves.